


The Great Chili Cook-off of 201X

by Asidian



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Cooking, Bad Puns, Gen, Spaghetti
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:28:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5150234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, hey." Sans shifts a plastic bag to his other hand to point a single bony finger at the cork board outside the supermarket. "Check it out."</p><p>The flyer is yellow and orange, in a cheery font that's barely readable. "Chili Cook-off," it says. "Try your hand at America's favorite food. Impress the judges and win amazing prizes!"</p><p>"Chili?" Papyrus' jaw falls open. "America's favorite?"</p><p>Sans shrugs. "Guess they're not pasta fans."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Chili Cook-off of 201X

**Author's Note:**

> For Beanclam, who wanted silly post-pacifist fic. :)
> 
> ...I am so, so sorry for the puns.

Their bags are full when they leave the grocery store – with butterscotch pudding mix and penne, cinnamon and farfalle, tomatoes and angel hair and linguini. There's a pack of Italian sausage that screams "Spice up your pasta!" on the label, half buried under three bottles of ketchup.

"My pasta needs no spice," Papyrus is saying. "I pummel the ingredients with care, which makes it exemplary by default."

Nobody turns to stare. The sight of two skeletons walking to the supermarket and home again has become a common one in the surface world, these past few months.

"Just try it out, bro," Sans says. "What can it hurt?"

"Hurt?" The ridges above Papyrus' eye sockets draw down in consternation. "It can upset the delicate balance between tomato and noodle. It can overthrow the creation of a culinary masterpiece!"

"Oh, hey." Sans shifts a plastic bag to his other hand to point a single bony finger at the cork board outside the supermarket. "Check it out."

The flyer is yellow and orange, in a cheery font that's barely readable. "Chili Cook-off," it says. "Try your hand at America's favorite food. Impress the judges and win amazing prizes!"

Sans' perpetual grin creeps wider. "Looks like somebody could use a culinary masterpiece."

"Chili?" Papyrus' jaw falls open. "America's favorite?"

Sans shrugs. "Guess they're not pasta fans."

"America," Papyrus tells him, voice strained, "is wrong."

"So you're gonna, what? Penne the judges a strongly-worded letter?" Sans is already reaching for the flyer, plucking out the pins to pull it down and get a closer look.

"This is no time for pasta jokes!" It's a pose he's learned from Undyne: chin up, fist clenched, shoulders back. If there was a breeze and Papyrus had hair, probably it would have been blowing majestically. "I will show these humans everything they've missed. I will create a chil-ghetti so incredible that it transcends the rules of their competition and –"

"Chili-dren the world over ask for it for dinner every night?"

Papryrus sputters. "This is no time for chili jokes, either! There's work to do!"

Sans snickers, stuffs the piece of paper into the shopping bag, and follows his brother away from the store.

 

* * *

 

"The internet's full of humans who say beans." Undyne dumps out a five-pound bag of dried kidney beans onto the counter. They tidal wave over the edge and pool on the floor, crunching under two sets of boots. When a small dog steals a mouthful, and then two, and then five, no one notices.

"And peppers." Seventeen habaneros join the beans, and the unfortunate dog takes one of those, as well. It runs from the room whimpering, tail between its legs.

"What luck," says Papyrus. "I know all there is to know about beans and peppers!" He scoops some of the dried beans into a bowl with pulverized tomato and stirs them together, all confidence.

"Check it out." Undyne waves a pack of noodles, and her grin is toothy and proud. The writing on the wrapper is in Japanese, the noodles thin and grey. "Alphys did some research and got us a secret ingredient, too."

"A new kind of pasta?" Papyrus plucks one of the noodles up between his finger bones. He crunches it raw between his teeth.  "Wowie!"

"It's soba," says Undyne. "Humans are crazy for the stuff. Alphys says they eat it in, like, 85% of her history books."

"Then we'll give them soba like they've never seen soba before!" Papyrus leans in. "It will be so-barilliant, none will doubt my culinary genius! Nyeheheheh."

"You nerd," Undyne says. "Quit spending so much time with your brother." She hands over the soba and a tall pot. It's stainless steel, glistening and professional – the very first thing Papyrus bought after moving to the surface. "Now, remember: with feeling!"

The noodles clang into the bottom of the pot with so much passion that half a dozen of them break.

They talk as they work, half-yelling to be heard over the thump and crash of ingredients being destroyed. When at last every pot in the kitchen is on top of the stove, burners blazing merrily as the water boils over, they lean back against the counter, reveling in what they've achieved.

Undyne wipes absently at the tomato seeds smearing her cheek. "Where is your brother, anyway? I'd've thought he'd want to see this."

"Slacking off from one job or another," Papyrus tells her. "He, too, is a master of something."

Undyne snorts. "How many does he have now?"

As though summoned, Sans pokes his head into the kitchen, the first sign that he's even in the house. "Oh, five or so. I lose count." The sparks of light in his eye sockets roam the kitchen, taking in details. The little white dog ventures back into the disaster zone, pressing against him and wagging its tail fitfully, and he strokes it with a bony hand.

"Brother," Papyrus says, "Just in time to taste the culmination of our efforts. I, the great Papyrus, have created a chil-ghetti for the ages!"

"With some help from your amazing teacher, punk." Undyne snakes a strong, scaled arm around bony shoulders and drags the great Papyrus in for a punishing noogie. "Credit where credit's due."

Sans side-steps flailing limbs with the ease of long practice. He circles around to the stove – dips a spoon into the pot and steals a taste. "It's, uh," he says. "It's like nothing I've ever tasted."

"You see?" crows Papyrus, finally squirming free. "We will break convention! When humans write their chili history books, this recipe will be on the front page."

"We ought to do a second practice run," Undyne says, leaning against the counter, beaming wide and toothy. "Bring in some taste testers."

"Not a bad plan." Sans scratches thoughtfully at his chin . "I'll send out invites."

 

* * *

 

The couch is still lumpy and sags in all the wrong places. It made the trip from Snowdin with the new owners of the house and took a few more dings en route. Now a human child sits on it, leaning against a short, heavyset skeleton. On the tv, a fabulous robot sings a duet with his co-host.

A patient voice from the kitchen says, "I believe the noodles are usually cooked first."

"Your mom's a lifesaver, kid," says Sans. He's wearing a navy button-up with a nametag written in his own sloppy handwriting. On his head is a white cap with a picture of a smiling hotdog. Below the image, it reads, "Skeledogs. They have more meat than you'd think."

Frisk glances toward the kitchen – catches a glimpse of flailing bony limbs. "She's pretty great."

Sans turns to look, too. "Don't I know it." On his lap is a piece of paper covered in half-finished math problems. He's running the numbers on something absently, hardly paying attention. At the bottom, one figure is circled: 44,328.

"What's that?" Frisk asks, and tucks their head against Sans' side to get a better look.

"Pet project." Sans tips a wink, and on the paper he doodles a white dog snacking on hot cats.

Mettaton's in a respectable suit now, announcing the weather and the time into a microphone with all the gravitas of a Hollywood A-list actor. Sans says, "Hey, would you look at that? Break's done."

Frisk scoots over so that he can stand, and Sans tucks the remote into the child's hand. "Cartoons on channel seventeen," he offers, and then he's gone.

Frisk watches Mettaton proclaim that the fog will be fog like the human world has never seen; then they flip to channel seventeen. From the kitchen, an alarmed voice says, "No, doggy! Bad doggy! That water's too hot for you!"

 

* * *

 

On the day of the chili cook-off, the sun is bright against the crisp blue of the autumn sky, and the leaves in the park have just begun to turn orange and yellow. Papyrus scatters beans and habaneros and soba across his picnic table. He rigs up the portable burner, and all the monsters who turned out for the occasion crowd around to watch.

Two hours later, when everyone has sampled more kinds of chili than they knew could exist, humans and monsters alike all congregate at the long folding table that seats the judges.

Then come the names of the winners, one after the next.

 

* * *

 

"You got robbed," says Undyne, slamming cutlery back into the box and then slamming the box closed. It's cardboard, so some of the effect is lost. "Those idiots might as well not have tongues."

"My chil-ghetti was too avant-garde." Papyrus throws one bony hand across his eyesockets. "It's hard, being a culinary artist with ideas ahead of his time."

"Perhaps next year," says Toriel, with a comforting smile. "It is an annual event, is it not?"

Alphys nods. "Then, th-this way, you have a whole year to work on the new recipe."

Sans slides into the cluster of monsters, and only Frisk notices where he came from – across the park, where nothing stands but a single lonely maple. "It's like the humans say: if at first you don't fricassee, fry, fry again."

"Nobody has ever said that but you," Papyrus tells him, and Sans' grin creeps wider.

Whatever punny reply might be forthcoming is cut short, however, when an elderly woman approaches. She has fleshy jowls and crinkles at the corners of her eyes, and her lapel still holds the small brass pin that proclaims her a judge. She says, "Papyrus, isn't it?"

Papyrus straightens, puffs out his ribcage. "You know my name? I mean – of course you know my name!"

"I hope you won't think poorly of us," says the woman. "You couldn't place because only chili is eligible. But we were all impressed by the, uh. Creativity of your entry."

"I see your dilemma, human," says Papyrus. "Never fear! I, the great Papyrus, have a great capacity for forgiveness."

"How kind." When the judge smiles, it leaves soft, doughy dimples in her cheeks. "But we couldn't stand to see you go away empty-handed, so – here. Congratulations. You got judges' choice."

The certificate looks very professional. Papyrus' name is typed in a stately font, and the woman hands over a set of keys along with it.

Papyrus clasps them to his clavicle. "Keys to the city?"

"To your prize." The judge nods toward the side of the road, and there it is.

The autumn sunlight catches the sleek, red lines of it. The upholstery is black leather, and when the chrome of the wheels catches the light, it's nearly blinding.

It is exactly the right make and model.

"Human," says Papyrus, when he can say anything at all. "Your taste in chil-ghetti is matched only by your taste in prizes."

Undyne whistles. "Would you look at that thing."

"Congratulations," says Toriel. Alphys can only manage, "W- _wow_."

"Way to go, bro," says Sans. "I auto have known you'd brake through the competition."

Frisk glances between the skeleton brothers. Their gaze lingers, and their eyebrows furrow, and they say: "I don't know how you pulled that off, but it was really impressive."

It's Sans that pulls the child in to tousle their hair.

The car's only supposed to seat four, but they all pile in anyway. They roll the top down and take the highway at 120 miles an hour, wind in their hair and sun on their skin.

And when Mettaton's new song comes on the radio, every one of them sings along.


End file.
